


i'll be fine when the wind stops blowin'

by thebronzerambler



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artist Clarke Griffin, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Jealousy, Recreational Drug Use, can these two nerds get it together?, conflict around nonmonogamy, who knows? maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebronzerambler/pseuds/thebronzerambler
Summary: “I like a lot of people Lexa.” Clarke said, lifting her eyes. She felt exhausted, her limbs felt lifeless, heavy. “I really like you.” She curled her fingers into Lexa’s, meeting her gaze which was unfathomable. “But I don’t want to forget who I am.”Lexa’s eyes darkened. She felt her grip slacken and pull away. For a split second, Clarke saw her resolve melt away, which was quickly replaced by a neutral expression, her jawline hardened.“I understand, Clarke. We want different things. We’re different people.”///Love is not a jigsaw puzzle to be solved.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 32
Kudos: 161





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Had Ten Dollaz" - Cherry Glazerr.

Clarke was in a blur. The heat from the dancefloor and summer night, music pounded from the speakers. Bodies slicked with sweat, the smell of smoke, the sticky floor. She loved this feeling, the anonymity, the familiarity and the way her body moved with a mass. She edged over closer to her friends. Bellamy, his mop of dark hair moving to the music. Raven, a twisted shadow underneath the shimmer of purple lights.

She touched Bellamy’s shoulder and mouthed, “I’m getting some air.” She slipped through the throbbing crowd into the night outside.

The backyard resembled any other garden in the midst of a house party, a scattering of milk-crates and mismatched chairs surrounded a firepit, a large couch that had seen better days was pushed against the back wall and clumps of people in various stages of sobriety sat around, laughing and talking. She saw Murphy sitting by himself on a chair by the fire, staring at the flames and smoking.

“Good party,” she sighed, flopping down into the seat next to him. “You should dance, Murphy.”

“I’m not much a dancer,” he turned to look at her, his pupils blown. He gave her a small, wry smile and offered her his cigarette. She took the cigarette, had a drag or two and passed it back to him.

She likes Murphy. He could easily come across as obnoxious and sarcastic. However, in quieter times when it was just the two of them he was often observant and reflective, a patient listener. She liked these stolen moments with him, away from the others. They bother stare into the crackling fire, watching the smoke curl up towards the smattering of stars.

The rest of her friends spill out of the dancefloor and crowd around them. They’re sweating and giggling and Clarke can still feel the low vibration of the bass, the heady thrum of the drugs in her bloodstream. Her body feels loose, languid, enjoying the sensation of the cool night breeze on sweat-licked skin.

Bellamy drinks from a large bottle of water, his face splitting into a wide grin. “You should stay hydrated, Princess.” He says, passing her the bottle.

She punches him playfully in the shoulder, “I _hate_ that name.”

“Well, you are the boss…” He laughs, his brown eyes twinkling playfully. “..and we are your loyal subjects.”

“I don’t think anyone could keep you and Raven in line, Bell.”

Raven smirks and looks at Clarke in mock outrage, “If it wasn’t for our wild ways and ingenuity, Griffin, you would have turned up at this party with three warm beers and some paracetamol.” Clarke laughed. It was true, when Raven and Bellamy had smelled the whiff of a _party_ , they had appeared at Clarke’s door with some hard liquor and party supplies. Raven always had a knack for organising the best quality party drugs in a tight timeframe.

“Speaking of royal subjects, Griffin…” Raven asked, still smirking. “How are your many concubines? I haven’t seen any here tonight.”

“I prefer the term _lovers_ , actually.” She said, with hint of mockery. “I can’t help that I’m a popular girl.”

Her friends loved to tease her, Bellamy and Raven especially. But they weren’t wrong, Clarke was _popular_. It had always been like this. She had always flitted between intimacies and experiences with ease. She had had long-term partners, but they had often ended with her feeling suffocated, closed in, and like monogamy was a trade-off for her independence. She was confident and loved sex, sex with different bodies, sex with different genders. She gave her time and love easily, but so often found herself rubbing up on the edges of others people’s expectations. She had long since given up the feelings of shame that used pervade her desires, and instead took pride in the way she moved through the world – open, honestly, with an ability to pursue what she wanted.

“Hey, someone has to live up the stereotype of slutty bisexual,” she added, cracking a fresh beer she had found in the ice box. “We can’t all be as hetero and monogamous as O….where is Octavia, by the way?”

Bellamy’s brow furrowed. But Raven said with an easy laugh, “She’s probably having a party of her own with Lincoln somewhere,” However, noticing Bellamy’s frown, she added “C’mon, lets go find her…”

“Griffin!” They yell as they move back towards to the party, “Come inside – I think Octavia is in one of the bedrooms…”

“Are you coming?” She asks Murphy. He waves her off, his eyes glassy and fixed to a girl across the yard. Emori raises her hand in greeting to Clarke, a slow smirk dancing across her lips. She’s talking to someone Clarke doesn’t recognise. She looks at Clarke, green eyes with a hard questioning look, high cheekbones and Clarke feels a breath hitch in her throat. _Fuck._

Raven pulls at her arms and she allows herself to be lead away back into the throbbing mass of the party, breaking eye contact.

***

Later, she finds herself wrapped in the cocoon of her friends, the party winding down. The bass is still vibrating through the floor and their bodies are strewn throughout the bedroom. Smoke is rising through the room towards the ornate cornices of the roof, someone smoking a joint. It’s an old Federation-era house – weatherboard, rambling, badly insulated and left in disrepair as a long-term rental. She isn’t sure whose house or party it is – a friend of Emori’s maybe? Ontari, perhaps. _Good party,_ she thinks.

The door opens and Murphy comes in, Emori in hand, the other girl follow, looking somewhat out of place. Clarke makes space, pushes Raven’s almost unconscious body down the carpet. Something has spilled and the carpet is stained, sticky. She sits, Clarke finds those green eyes again, closer now.

“I’m Clarke,” She says, lazily extending a hand. “…sorry, about the floor. It’s a been a messy night.”

“Hello, Clarke,” she says. She clips the ‘k’ at the end of her name, a dulcet tone, an imperceptible accent, “Lexa.”

Clarke smiles – she was dozing and now she’s wide awake, she can feel the heartrate beating in her palms, her senses heightened. _Lexa._ She holds the name between her teeth, rolls it around her tongue.

“Good night?” Clarke asks.

“Yes, I’ve had a good time.” Lexa states, evenly, calmly. “I was about the go home…”

“How’s the dancefloor? Is it dead yet? It’s always so sad when the dancefloor dies…” Clarke rambles, caught in the knowing look Lexa is giving her, the smallest hint of a smile playing across her lips.

“Almost,” Lexa responds, smile widening.

Clarke rises, and puts out a hand to Lexa. “One more dance…with me? Before you leave.”

Lexa looks a little taken aback by how straightforward she is, how easily intimate. The blonde quirked an eyebrow, bit her lip. Lexa allows herself to be pulled up from the lolling mass of bodies, the quiet laughter, the sleepy end to a long night. Clarke leads her through the house – the dancefloor is almost empty, a few diehard individuals, spinning, barely moving to the music under the green and amber lights. The DJ is a shadow and the music has shifted significantly from earlier in the night, gone are the large crowd and the Disco revival, everyone singing, moving, dancing to the same joyous, thunderous reverb. Bangers, as Bellamy had called them.

It’s all techno now. Dark, ominous, hard beats. It’s sexy and it feels as if Clarke is punching herself in the chest, waking herself up to the sound of the beat. They close their eyes, bodies moving lazily in the vapour, her body caught between the tension of the music and the warm body, close, closer. They dance, the haze from the smoke machine and the end of her high distorting the colour, the contours of Lexa’s body. Clarke feels that same anonymity of the crowd, the same freedom. Clarke touches her and as the beat rises, warm limbs, soft skin. She can smell her – sweat, wine, smoke, something acrid, like sulphur. Clarke kisses her, a glint in Lexa’s eyes pushing her forward. She feels the beat thunder in her ear, her senses reaching a crescendo, the tension in her body a taut string. Lexa tastes like whiskey, like steel, like peppermint. Time stretches, it curves around their bodies, it stands still. She kisses her harder. _Fuck._

***

Clarke wakes in a blur. Her head pounds and she remembers flashes of the previous night.

The knowing look her friend’s gave her she waved goodbye to them, Lexa in tow. Stumbling up the steps to her apartment. Lexa, pushing her against the walls of her apartment, kissing her, all teeth and desperation. _Fuck._ Soft skin, sweat, moaning. Lexa, eyes darkened, moving down her body. Clarke, biting her shoulder, her hands pulling at her chestnut locks. Clarke, begging for more.

_Please._

Please what?

_Please, I want you to put more fingers inside of me._

Clarke, cradling Lexa’s head in her arms as she fucked her, staring straight into those green eyes, wide and desperate.

_Do you like that?_

Lexa answering with a moan. _Yes, yes. Please, don’t stop._

Clarke groans, he face is plastered into the pillow. She can feel a warm body next to her, wavy brown hair fanned out across the doona. She remembers, _Lexa._ She must have stayed. She moves closer to the body, ignoring her pounding headache, the tinge of smoke and sour liquor on her breath. Soft summer light is filtering through her curtains, clothes are strewn across the floor, a half-drunk bottle of wine is open next to her bedside table. Lexa is beautiful in the morning sun, all delicate eyelashes and strong features. She closes her eyes and nestles closer into the smell of peppermint and the warm body wrapped in the sheets.

***

Later when Clarke wakes a second time, Lexa is gone. She smiles to herself, looking at the imprint of Lexa’s silhouette in the bedsheets. She slips from the bed and patters soundlessly to the kitchen and puts the percolator on the stove. The kitchen and lounge room of her art deco apartment are strewn with evidence of the night before. There are half drunk mixed drinks sitting on the island bench from pre-drinking with Raven and Bellamy, her jacket and bag hanging are thrown over the back of a chair and she fishes her (dead) phone from the behind the couch cushions.

She’s leaning on the bench thinking about the pile of work she has waiting for her, cursing her excess from the previous night when she spots something that does fit into the general debris of her kitchen on a Sunday morning. On a post-it note tucked under a pot plant by the window sill, she finds a note scrawled in delicate cursive writing with Lexa’s phone number on it. _Fuck._

She’d already relegated last night to a passing fancy, a night borne from lingering eye contact, music, and the heightened connection experienced in the haze of substance use. Perhaps. She thinks of the burn of Lexa’s gaze in the half-light and her long fingers arched inside of Clarke as she begged for more. Perhaps, she could be persuaded otherwise.

***

Lexa runs. She runs until she can feel the burn in her throat and the hammer in her chest, her body warm and clammy with sweat. She runs to sweat out the liquor from last night, the patchy sleep, the lethargic fog that had settled across her brain. She had woken up in Clarke’s apartment with a creeping hangover and dull bruises blooming across her thighs and slipped away by midmorning. Simply from the force of habit, when she had arrived home she had grabbed her running gear and headed straight out to the running track by the creek.

Opening the front door of her small terrace house, she found her roommate Anya drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. The kitchen is small and cramped, but cosy, and filled to the brim with copper pots, hanging plants, and jars filled with lentils and spices. Anya is sitting at the small round kitchen table, her eyes fixed on the politics section.

“Big night last night?” Anya asks, not looking up from her newspaper.

Lexa makes a noncommittal noise and gets herself a drink of water, sitting opposite.

“I didn’t hear you come in last night,” Anya continues, goading her. Her sharp features pulled into a small smile.

“I went to a party…” Lexa says. “I stayed elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Anya looks up from the paper, one eyebrow raised.

“I went home with someone.”

“Someone?”

“Yes, someone. It was good. I had a nice time.”

“A _nice_ time.”

“Fine. I had a good time, a really good time. Her name was Clarke.”

“Wow, Lexa. It’s weird for you to find a one night stand at a party.”

Lexa makes another noncommittal noise, getting up to pour herself some cereal from a box sitting on the bench. “Maybe. I left her my number. We’ll see.”

“I’m just relieved you finally got laid, _Commander_. It’s been a while.”

“Shut up, Anya,” Lexa says, pulling the front page towards her.

Lexa busies herself with the frontpage, mostly to provide a foil to Anya’s interrogation. It had been a while for Lexa. She was not one for casual encounters and enjoyed spending time with her friends, but rarely sought out large groups of people or parties. However, last night she had allowed Emori to drag her to a party at Ontari’s. She had been keen to break out of her usual schedule, but had not expected to go home with someone.

She remembers making eye contact the blonde over the firelight, momentarily distracted from her conversation with Emori. _Fuck._ She was beautiful. It had almost seemed like a fleeting mirage, a flash of blue before her eye contact broke as she watched the girl get pulled by her friends in the pulsating throng of the party.

She had not expected to see her again, had almost let the memory float away in the warm summer air. She had had fun at the party, danced, drunk a little, had some nice conversations with her friends. She had missed this, letting go, letting her mind wander, structureless through the milieu of crowds and conversation. She had been ready to go home when she had found her again, nestled in a sleepy corner with her friends in the smoke-filled room.

_Clarke._

Clarke had caught her eye, made room for her on the floor, introduced herself and then led Lexa away towards the dancefloor. Lexa could tell she had taken something, her look was glassy and her pupils blown, but her intention was clear. She wasn’t used to someone else taking the lead, but Clarke with her small smile, quirked eyebrow, bit lip, had disarmed her. She had pulled into the last shadows of the party, the beat of the music and kissed her…

“Lexa?”

Anya interrupted her thoughts, as Lexa’s mind drifted to Clarke’s pale, soft thighs, the guttural moan she let out when Lexa had fucked her. “Yes?” She looked up, surprised.

“Do you want to do the crossword?”

“Sure.” Lexa responded, trying to push the image of Clarke from her mind and forcing herself to finally meet Anya’s gaze.

“A ten letter word for fickle…” Anya continued.

Lexa went to respond with the word _capricious_ , but at the same time she looked down at her phone and saw she has received a text from Clarke and made quick inhalation of breath. The text read simply, “I had fun last night. Maybe we could do it again sometime?”


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke opened the door to her apartment. She had spent the day in the studio, barely painting, staring at the endless canvases, at half-finished pieces with missing details she couldn’t quite get right. She was returning home, her body exhausted, her mind frustrated, with oil paint under her nails and her hair pulled back into a greasy bun. She looked down at her phone to see that Wells was calling her.

“Hi Wells,” She said, picking up the phone and pouring herself a glass of wine.

“Hey Clarke,” he said softly. “How are you?”

She sighed and smiled to herself. “I’m shit. I’ve had a shit day. I’m tired and I can’t paint and I can’t finish anything and I think I should give up on my career as an artist and work in finance or something instead…”

She can hear Wells laugh down the end of the line, a deeply familiar sound that dulls her frustration, she can feel herself beginning to relax. “You would make a terrible banker…I’m sorry you’ve had such a horrible day. Do you want to have dinner with me? I’m sure I can cheer you up.”

“I’d love that, but unfortunately I have plans tonight. This weekend maybe? I’d love to see you, I miss you.”

“Yes, I would love that.” He carefully enunciates every world with his slow, careful lilt. “What are you up to tonight?”

She pauses, feeling a pang of long-forgotten guilt. “I have a date.” She says, “Maybe a date, a drink.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, and respond easily, quickly, kindly. “That’s nice, who with? How did you meet?”

She tells him about the party, about Lexa, bite-sized morsels of her life that she knows he wants, edited and polished down to be palatable, easy to digest. _Lexa._ She’s momentarily distracted. They make loose plans for the weekend, dinner on Sunday. He tells her about his father, about his new job. It’s easy to talk to him, like slipping into familiar old clothes, but there are still fragments – a silence when she mentions sex, a tenderness to his voice when he talks about missing her.

Wells had always loved Clarke. They had grown up together, running over the hardwood floors of Clarke’s childhood home in socked feet, climbing trees in the endless summer days, peeling back the layers of filament and skin to share the flesh of the sweet oranges that fell from heaving tree in the back of Wells’ yard. He had been her first friend, and he had always loved her. He had always loved the way her brow furrowed when stubbornness had set in and she had made up her mind about something, resolute and unassailable in her decision. He had always loved her blue eyes, the way they darkened with steely determination as they jockeyed for dominance in their endless chess tournaments. He loved her easy laugh and her knowing smile and he loved to be cause of them. He loved the way she looked when she painted, the secret moments he sometimes caught sight of when she thought she was alone, paintbrush in her teeth, her blonde tendrils curled around the back of her neck, her face screwed up in concentration.

He had been her first kiss, under the same orange tree in the last warmth of autumn. Their bodies buzzing with the heat and tension of adolescence. She remembers she had run her tongue over his teeth, tasted someone else for the first time, felt his body in a way so different from the wrestling matches and easy intimacy that had made up their childhood. He had smiled at her, shyly, his brown eyes brimming with something she did not understand yet.

She had always loved Wells. He was easy to love. His knowing smile, his unwavering kindness and tenderness, his quiet, warm way of moving through the world. He had kissed her in the shadow of the orange tree, his broadening shoulders wrapped around her and he had tasted like home. They had grown up with the world contracted between their two houses, their parents’ endless dinner parties, seasons marked through birthdays and grazed knees, nights spent huddled together under blankets telling ghost stories and falling asleep curled into each other. For Wells, Clarke had been the beginning of everything and he never wanted to stop kissing her in the world they had built together.

It made sense to date Wells, to love Wells, to explore this new world with Wells at her side, brimming with nervous energy and bodies shifting under the weight of change and hormones. They had fumbled through early love and sex together, new instruments of desire to explore the safe and comfortable love that they had always had. She remembered the way his body had felt, his wide hands that had held her so many years, his quiet knowing smile that looked at her in the same way, but deeper, hungrier. He had imagined the rest of their lives like this, new memories sifted through their two homes, their lives intertwined, inextricable from orange trees and endless summer days.

She loved Wells. But with the raw nervous energy of adolescence she had discovered the thrill of sex and new bodies, the way she could map out desire on other people’s skin. Clarke rebelled. She would sneak out of her bedroom window and drag Wells to parties. She would drink more than him, stay out later. She would kiss girls and feel their soft skin, the quiet sound they made under their breath. Girls made her stomach lurch into her throat and sent a warm tingling feeling creep up the back of her neck, a feeling the safe warm arms of Wells did not evoke. Sometimes, in the drunken stupor of adolescence, she would look over to him at a party and see his beautiful eyes filled with a crushing sadness she did not understand.

He had told her that he loved her, only her, and she was all he had ever wanted and would ever want. She had looked at him and cried and thought of all of the lives she wanted to lead outside of the world they had built for themselves, away from their parents, orange trees, away from childhood, and early crushes. She had whispered _someday_ and _not yet_ and _too young_ between sobs and she had watched his heart break underneath her fingers. His heart, jagged shards that cut underneath her nails, that fell through her fingers like sand. She loved Wells. She had always loved Wells, but not in the way he had wanted.

***

By the time Clarke hears the knock on the door, the frustration of the day had faded like the last flecks of pinkish cloud over the inky blue horizon. Her conversation with Lexa via text had been flirty, but short and to the point and in her mind she has tried to piece together the fragments of the night they spent wrapped in each other with the direct and forthright tone of her messages. She was curious to reconcile the images of _Lexa_ that had flitted distractedly through her head all week with _Lexa_ , in her apartment on a mostly (sober) midweek date.

The door opened and Clarke’s breath constricted in her throat. _Fuck._ How could she have forgotten, Lexa is _beautiful_ , disarmingly so. She’s wearing understated simple clothes, a white shirt and a leather jacket, her wavy tendrils falling effortlessly around her shoulders. Clarke catches her eye and she’s reminded of the first time she saw her, the briefest flash of forest green across the smoky haze of firelight.

“Lexa,” Clarke says breathlessly, inviting her inside.

“Hello, Clarke.” She says. 

“Can I get you a drink?” Clarke brings them wine as they sit in the now spotless living room of Clarke’s apartment, inches apart. The living room is simple, with clean lines and splashes of colour and small details. A large monsteria sits fanned out across the bay window, a bookshelf crammed with a mix of classics, artbooks, and feminist literature sits against the wall, a vase of drying Australian native flowers sits on the coffee table in front of them.

Clarke is rarely tongue-tied, but the image of Lexa leaning back on her couch, clutching a wine glass makes her swallow hard. She had not anticipated _this,_ to feel her face flush, her body twitch with nervous energy, to feel disarmed, unsure. She was used to this dance, to taking the lead, but there was something about Lexa that had thrown her usual unshakeable confidence off-balance.

“I like your place…it looks different in the light of day.” Lexa says, her eyes moving curiously around the room.

“It was daytime by the time you left, actually,” Clarke retorts, a small smirk growing across her lips.

“To be honest, I wasn’t very…observant…that morning. My mind was on other things.”

“Other things?” Clarke says, her eyebrow quirked.

“Yes, _other things_.” Lexa jaw tightens, and Clarke notices her eyes darken with desire as she meets hers gaze. _Fuck._ She takes a sip of wine to steady herself. _Pinot noir._ Light, fruity with a heady aroma.

“Is that yours?” Lexa asks, gesturing to a painting hanging over the mantle. The painting is abstract, moving swirls of bodies and colour. It’s vibrant, almost a little unsettling, but beautiful and evocative.

“Yes,” Clarke responds, momentarily distracted from looking at Lexa. “It’s one of my early pieces, but one of my favourites…”

“It’s amazing…” Lexa states, getting up to look closer at some of the detail in the corner of the painting. 

Clarke smiles, thinking about the day she had in the studio. “Thanks, it’s nice to hear, especially after that day I had with my art…”

Lexa send her a small smile, her eyes darting back up to the piece.

“What does it remind you of?” Clarke asks, “What do you see?”

Lexa looks closer at the piece, the layers of oil paint “I’m not sure…bodies, sex, movement…I’m not sure…it’s more about how it makes me feel…”

“How does it makes you feel?” Clarke’s stare is steelier now, challenging, she takes a step towards Lexa.

“Arousal, warmth, excitement…but also sadness, heartbreak. It’s an evocative piece, layered….” Lexa’s voice wavers, very slightly, meeting Clarke’s gaze. “How is it supposed to make me feel?”

Clarke says nothing, her eyes flicking from Lexa’s eyes to her lips. The air in the rooms shifts as Clarke moves closer to her and places her wine glass on the mantle. The breezy conversation from a minute ago has been replaced by something heavier, almost tense. _Fuck._ Clarke can feel the back of her neck prickle, her breathing feels laboured as they stare at each other, eye contact unbroken.

After an imperceptible nod from Clarke, Lexa breaks the tension. She kisses her, hard and desperate, her hand lost in Clarke’s blonde hair. Clarke lets out a low guttural moan under her breath that spurs Lexa on. She deepens the kiss, pushing Clarke against the wall, her hands moving down Clarke’s body.

Lexa pulls away, “Fuck…” She mutters under her breath, “I’ve been wanting to do that since you opened the door.”

“Well, what took you so long then?” Clarke says mockingly, biting her lip.

Lexa responds by kissing her again, slower and deeper, drinking her in. Clarke’s self-assured smirk dies on her lips. She’s surprised by how quickly she loses herself, desperate for _more_ , pushing herself against Lexa, grinding desperately. _Fuck._ Lexa runs her hands down Clarke’s body, her fingers creeping underneath her shirt. Clarke can already feel her arousal rising from her body, her skin burning with desire.

Lexa pulls away slightly, one hand still firmly held against soft skin of Clarke’s taut spine. Clarke is breathing heavily, her face flushed, her pupils blown, and she’s looking at Lexa almost murderously.

“I like to take my time…” Lexa says, her own self-satisfied smile twitching at the corner of her lips. She pulls away a little more, still within arm’s reach as she picks her wine up from the mantle and takes a long slow sip, her eyes trained on Clarke.

Clarke resists her almost intractable impulse to send Lexa a sarcastic response. Instead, she takes what she considers the _high road._ She doesn’t dignify Lexa’s statement with a response and pulls her into a furious kiss, open mouthed, wet, luxuriating. Lexa almost drops the wine glass. Easily, Clarke takes it from her and places it on the mantle, her body still pushed against Lexa’s.

Clarke continues to grind, Lexa’s leg jutted between her legs. She lets out a soft moan and Lexa is losing herself, any semblance of upper hands she had a moment ago is quickly dissolving as her hands begin to pull at the edges of Clarke’s clothing, desperate to feel more skin, to feel _more_ and _all_ of Clarke against her.

“ _Fuck_ , Clarke…” She says. Clarke can feel Lexa’s body humming with desire, her breath coming out as gasps as Clarke kisses her, almost frenzied.

Lexa’s lost in her now, a wanderer in the desert having finally found water. Clarke, her oasis - desperate, thirsty, deathly parched, her hands travelling up her shirt, her thighs, her ass. She picks her up, pinning her easily writhing body to wall. Clarke is surprised by her strength, and can do nothing but moan in her ear, her hot breath on Lexa’s neck, urging her forward.

“Please. _Fuck._ Bedroom. Now.” Clarke says, almost incoherently.

Lexa doesn’t wait for another invitation, she half-carries, half-pulls Clarke down the hallway to the bedroom, her fingers puling at Clarke’s clothing. She kisses her, pushing her down on the bed and feel her body taut underneath her. Lexa grinds into her, relishing the weight of her body over Clarke’s. She’s _beautiful._ Her alabaster skin flushed, her blond mussed, her breath almost coming as out as a desperate whine under the feel of Lexa’s mouth.

Lexa pushes herself against her and she can feel Clarke slackening, opening herself, her body curling around Lexa’s, imploring her for more. Lexa strips off Clarke’s clothing, somewhat clumsily as Clarke continues to grind upwards, desperate for pressure.

Clarke is soaked when Lexa finally touches her, her pubic hair damp with desire. The smell of her, earthy and sweet, is starting to make her head spin, especially combined with the tiny moans that Clarke makes when she brushes her with her fingertips.

“How do you want me to fuck you?” Lexa’s voice is clear and authoritative, despite the pronounced effect Clarke is having on her.

“ _Fuck. ”_ Clarke is almost incoherent, her body arched and pushing against Lexa’s hard stomach and pelvic bone. The added dimension of the easy authority in Lexa’s voice is pushing her over the edge, her body writhing. 

“Clarke,” Lexa repeats, her fingers trained on the entrance to her cunt, her fingertips lightly teasing her clitoris. “How do you want me to fuck you?”

“ _Fuck._ Please, Lexa. I want you inside of me.” Clarke begs. Lexa doesn’t tease her any longer, pushing deep inside of her. Clarke’s whimpers of _deeper_ and _harder_ are lost as Lexa pulls in her into a kiss, ravenous, deep, desperate. She’s holding Clarke to her, fucking her deeply as Clarke’s moans gets guttural, almost animalistic against her open mouth.

Clarke doesn’t last long. Lexa builds to her a raw crescendo, knuckles deep and holds her there, resplendent, for as long as possible as Clarke falls over the edge. _Fuck,_ Lexa thinks, she’s _beautiful._ Her breath coming out in ragged gasps, her eyes ablaze, their bodies languid, slicked with sweat.

Clarke gives her a lazy smile, her eyes almost rolling back in the back of her head.

“Jesus, Lexa….”

“Yes, Clarke?” Lexa gives her a small smile, her hand drawing circles on her back as she watches her come up for air.

“It’s rare that I like anything sober more than I like doing it I’m…well, _not sober…”_ Clarke says, her breathing still laboured. “But, _fuck_ Lexa…”

Clarke kisses her, hungry, the sated air between evaporating into thick tension, like molasses between them. 

“Well…how do _you_ like to be fucked…” Clarke says, saddling Lexa and fixing her with a cocky smile.

  
  
***

Several hours later, they lay in Clarke’s bed, their entwined bodies exhausted and slicked with sweat. Lexa watched Clarke’s eyelids flutter as she begins to drift off into sleep, one arm strewn over Lexa’s naked torso. She watched the rise and fall of Clarke’s chest by the light of a solitary candle on the window sill that had burnt down to a low wick is sending ambient, flickering shadows across the room. She was _awake_ though, the visceral images of Clarke’s naked body seared across her subconscious as she listened to the distant hum of traffic, a clock ticking in the next room.

She should probably leave, she thought to herself. She wasn’t usually one for sleepovers, preferring to keep the boundaries around pleasure clear and demarcated from the rest of her life. However, she was so _warm and_ Clarke was so pleasantly entangled around her. Clarke was a messy sleeper, her blond mussed lazily across the pillow, one leg wrapped around the doona like she had just beat it a vigorous wrestling match. Lexa steeled herself, ignoring Clarke’s slow, even exhalations of breath she could feel across her stomach. She very slowly began to extricate herself from Clarke, gently removing her arm from Lexa and beginning to creep put of the bed. Clarke gave a small snort as she unconsciously reconfigured herself in the bed where Lexa’s body had been.

“Lexa?” Lexa was half-way through trying to locate her underwear in the dull candlelight when she heard her name. Clarke was looking at her, sleepily, with a confused look on her face.

“Hey, Clarke…” She said softly. “Go back to sleep. I was just grabbing my stuff to head out..”

“You don’t have too…” Clarke said, very quietly.

“No, no…I should. It’s a school night…”

“Well, I understand if you have too. But…I’d like you to stay, if you want…”

Lexa paused, halfway through finding one of her socks that had almost ended up under the bed. She looked at Clarke, who gave her a sleepy half smile. She was bathed in the half-light of the candle, her skin looked pearl white against the pale blue tones of the bedsheets.

_It was late. She should probably stay._

“Alright, I’ll stay. I’d like that…”

She threw her clothing back onto the floor, blew out the candle and crawled back into the bed next to Clarke.

“Good,” Clarke mumbled under her breath as she threw her arm back around Lexa and nestled into her neck.

“Is that ok?” She asked, barely a whisper.

Lexa hummed in assent, as she pulled the doona around her and closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of Clarke’s naked skin and the smell of her shampoo as she drifted into an easy sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback appreciated! The next chapter will hopefully delve a little more into into Lexa's backstory, with a sprinkling of Clarke x friendship.


	3. Chapter 3

Lexa sat her desk the day after her date with Clarke in a pleasurable haze of tiredness. She could feel the bitemarks etched across her thighs, the dull thud of a headache at the nape of her neck from too much wine and hours spent wrapped around Clarke. She’d dragged herself out of her bed that morning, _late_ for work, but still blissfully lost in the warm sleepy fog of the night before. Clarke, with effortlessly tousled sex hair and barely wrapped in a silk robe had seen her out. She had kissed her, blistering and slow, before waving her off with a wry smile. Something about it had felt oddly domestic and intimate, but also thrilling and new. As Lexa had walked away with the taste of Clarke on her lips, it had taken every ounce of self-control for her not to not turnaround and pull at Clarke’s scantily held robe and take her back to bed.

Work was busy, unyielding, and despite her state she could switch easily into gear. She was a public health researcher with a focus on Gender and Women’s health and an enviable career. Her ability to switch into assertive leadership and incisive decision-making was well-regarded throughout her university and the various research institutes she worked with, and this morning was no different. She had just wrapped up a long-distance meeting for a community health project in South Africa with her colleague Indra, but could barely keep the smile from the corner of her lips as she thought about the night before.

“It’s a good project…” Indra said, misreading Lexa’s expression as one associated with the meeting.

“I think so too…the local project leads are doing a fantastic job. I think it’s a really good collaboration for us.” Lexa responded, without missing a beat.

It was true, the project was going forward with minimal teething problems, which was rare and difficult in the fraught landscape of international funding and global health. _Step back. Support and invest in local infrastructure._ _Build trust and be collaborative. It takes as long as it takes,_ she thought to herself. It had not always come this easily for her. She had started in research as a scientist, an infectious disease epidemiologist, convinced that she had the rights answers to the rights questions, and it had taken her _years_ to understand that a gulf always existed between the laboratory and the real-world context. It had taken her _years to_ learn a lot of things.

She sighed, thinking about the curveball that her career had thrown at her not only professionally, but also personally. She thought of _Costia._ The dull ache between her thighs and sleepy haze shifted in a moment. She felt her body tighten and took a deep breath.

“It all looks good,” She said mechanically to Indra. “I’m going to go finish off my report…”

Indra gave her a curt nod, understanding her cue and picked up her papers.

_Costia._ It was rare for her think of her now, so viscerally, feel the familiar sting of guilt, the searing grief in her chest. Perhaps it was something about the thrill of desire, a naked body pressed against her own, a kiss at the door – things she had rarely enjoyed since Costia had died.

It now appeared as a series of moments in her head, a playback loop she watched half-detached, half-grief stricken.

 _Costia on her way to pick up groceries. A speeding car, a head-on collision. Their car, almost toylike, twisted around a lamp post._ Lexa’s phone, ringing into nothingness as she worked late into the night in the laboratory.

 _Costia, unconscious, lying in a hospital bed as her parents try desperately to get onto Lexa._ Lexa, asleep at her desk.

 _Costia, on life-support, her beautiful olive complexion pallid white._ Lexa, almost too late.

 _Where had she been?_ Goodbye. _Goodbye._

So many moments, frozen in time. The beeps of the machinery in the hospital as she said goodbye, sickened with grief and anger that she hadn’t been there sooner. The click of the key in the door when she had returned to their shared home for the first time after Costia had died, desolate and empty, with the imprints of Costia on everything, soaked in everything. The first days back at work, when she would suddenly be clutched with terror that something had gone wrong, that she had missed something – until she remembered, she had lost _everything._ _Costia_ , with her dark brown eyes, her easy laugh, her patience, her slow easy love of Lexa that filled their time, filled their small apartment, filled out the corners of her life like lamplight in a darkened room. _Costia._

She had slowly moved forward, incrementally, hardened by grief and guilt and this deep thudding loneliness that now filled the corners of her life. _Love is weakness._ She was more guarded, more distant. But Costia’s death, even though she loathed to admit it had also changed her for the better. She was slower now, took more time, she was more methodical. She listened, was slower to anger, more thoughtful. She worked more with people too, taking he time to _listen_ and _understand_ before stepping forward to say something. She was better at her job, more focussed on the context and the people, than the outcomes they had achieved. But still, the fleeting moment from this morning – the lingering kiss at the door, the growing balloon in her chest – it faded, dulled in colour at the sting of guilt. _Costia._

_***_

Clarke had gone back to bed. She had kissed Lexa at the door, trying to her best to drown out the searing look Lexa was giving her, her body still brimming with desire. She had gone back to bed with the intention of trying to get a few more hours of sleep, but had rolled around fitfully, thinking of the commanding tone of Lexa’s voice, the way her back arched and tensed when she came, the hint of collarbone under her shirt before she had left.

She had fucked herself. _Twice._

The images of the night before flashing across her eyes, the smell of Lexa in the sheets – a low musk of peppermint and sandalwood, earthy and reassuring, the low growl Lexa made when she was fucking Clarke still ringing in her ears, needy, almost animalistic.

She had slowly pulled herself out of bed my mid-morning, her bed reeking of desire and sweat. She was just about to get in the shower and _consider_ heading to her studio to stare at empty canvases when she heard a knock on the door. Surprised, she pulled on her robe, half-hoping it was Lexa returning to her apartment to ravish her well into the afternoon.

Of course, it was Raven. She stood there, wearing her customary red bomber jacket, holding two coffees, with a self-satisfied smile plastered across her face.

“Good morning, sunshine.” She said, handing Clarke a coffee. Clarke rolled her eyes but accepted it gratefully.

“How did you know I would even be here? I’m usually at work by this time.”

“ _Good date, late to wake_ …” Raven intoned sarcastically.

Clarke glared, while Raven, bright-eyed and laughing to herself pushed past her into the apartment.

“Wow, Clarke. You really need to air out this apartment…it reeks of debauchery…” Raven said, gesturing at the half-drunk wine glasses and Clarke’s slovenly appearance.

“I was just about to get in the shower…” Clarke retorted. “You have terrible timing.”

“I have impeccable timing…” She said, opening the bay window in the living room with an exaggerated scrunch of her nose. “Go. Shower. I can wait to hear the gossip until after the cleansing ritual.”

Clarke returned a few minutes later, towel drying her hair and feeling significantly less _seedy_ than she had a few moments ago. “Why aren’t _you_ at work by the way?”

Raven spread herself on the couch, placing her arms underneath her head. “Perks of being a genius…,” She said cockily. “I get to make my own hours.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, knowing that the statement had an element of truth to it. Raven had no middle-ground, _ever._ She saddled the extremes of working around-the-clock for no-money at a garage fixing dilapidated machinery or barely working for tech start-ups for excessive contractor rates.

“So…” She said, with an exaggerated air. “How was your date…”

Clarke collapsed down next to her on the couch, finishing the dregs of her coffee. “Good,” She intoned under her breath. “Ooof, _so good.”_ She added, with a theatrical sigh.

“Wow, it takes quite a performance to get a sigh like that from _Clarke Griffin.”_ Raven said. “What was her name…”

“Lexa.” Clarke said. _Lexa._ She felt her heart flutter in her chest.

“Lexa.” Raven repeated, good naturedly. “Good name.”

Clarke put her head in her hands, somewhat dramatically. “Raven…” She whined, “She is so _fucking_ hot.”

Raven cackled in response. “Oh, Clarke. Women so often turn you into this…”

“No,” Clarke said. “It’s different. _She’s special_.”

Raven raised an eyebrow, giving her almost quizzical look. “ _Special_.” She said under her breath, “that’s a new one.”

***

Raven had come into her life like a hurricane, ripping through the fabric of Clarke’s well-ordered life with a passion and fury she had never experienced. Clarke had met Raven, how so many of her intimacies and friendships had begun, through sweaty entwined limbs and ragged gasps of pleasure. Clarke had been out at the club with the Octavia and Bellamy, her oldest friends, when she had spied Raven across the room. Raven, with a quick smile and a witty retort and dance moves that had put a slightly inebriated Clarke to shame. Raven had edged closer, whispered something in her ear and kissed her. Clarke, taken aback had kissed her in return and allowed herself to be pulled back towards a boy with long hair and warm kind eyes. _Finn,_ he had mouthed wordlessly to her, as Raven had pulled him into a hungry kiss.

Life had seemed far easier then. Life, sex, friendship has seemed easier and more dangerous and she had spent days pushed between their beautiful bodies, lost in laughter and pleasure, naked skin, and the fresh bloom of friendship, like a new bruise appearing under the skin. She had loved Raven, her audacity and formidable intellect, the way she nudged Clarke to laugh at herself, to admire herself, and look in the mirror at the corners of herself she rarely inspected by daylight. Finn, quiet and calm, with a unassuming sardonic air to match Raven’s scorching energy. He had coaxed her from her shell, her need to control the situation and allowed her to take flight, her body lost against the backdrop of another’s love. She had adored those few days, something impossible now, to lose her body and her time in the company of strangers. She had been a spectator of their love, a few days spent nestled in a bend in this sprawling, aching, love – lugged from early childhood, through adolescence angst, to the deep heaving rivulets of adulthood. It had felt like such a privilege to bear witness.

But _off course_ it had ended terribly, she thought to herself. If she had been presented with the same situation again today, she would see the train wreck coming from a mile away and steer well clear. But imbued with the optimism of youth and desire, she had dived into the sticky, sweaty mess of Raven and Finn. She had liked, even _loved_ both of them in those early, heady days. She had loved them as a pair; their endless inside jokes, their seamless understanding of one another, their fierce loyalty.

Her relationship with Raven had shifted easily into friendship, they’d spend hours lying on the floor of Clarke’s kitchen, drinking cheap cask wine and talking about their lives. Her friendship with Raven swung between the poles that defined Raven herself. They could hours spent convulsing with laughter on the floor, or the steely silence that sometimes accompanied the throwaway comments and colourful anecdotes, hinting at something deeper, and darker lurking below the surface. Sometimes Raven seemed cast from steel herself, implacable and razor-sharp, but slowly, in the company of Clarke, she would bend or crack open to reveal the frayed wires and circuitry underneath.

In the company of Finn, she felt weighted, tension hung in their air, almost suffocating. His company, which had made her feel so _safe_ and understood in the early days of their intimacy felt taut, rigid and uncompromising. He got quieter and would watch her moodily in the company of others, his comments terse and provocative. She had backed off from him and Raven after those early days, content to bask in their friendship, give their long-established relationship oxygen to breathe. But Finn _pushed_ her. He was physical with her, lingering touches and quiet, lilting compliments muttered under his breath when no one else was around. One night at a party, too many drinks and the night had turned languid and slippery under her fingertips. Finn had pulled her aside, his tone urgent and emotional.

“Clarke. I love you.” She had recoiled from his intensity, his hands clasped around her shoulders.

“Finn…I…care about you too. But…we can’t. We’re friends. What about Raven…”

“I love you. I’m in love with you.”

She felt his hands tighten around her, trapped in a corner. His voice rising in urgency, looking at her with that desperate wide-eyed look.

“Finn. I can’t…” She had tried to pull away as he moved closer, trying to kiss her. “Get off me…”

She had pushed him off her, his grip slackening as the truth began to dawn on him. In the same moment, she caught sight of Raven from across the room. Her beautiful brown eyes darkened by storm clouds, ravaged by heartbreak and rage.

Hours later, Raven still trembling with anger as they sat on the rooftop passing a bottle of wine between them. Clarke held her hand as they watched the pinkish glow of sunlight creep across the sky.

“I’d pick you first.” Clarke said, squeezing her hand.

Raven paused and watched the sky, before the familiar smirk flitted across her face.

“Of course you would. I’m awesome.”

***

Raven had convinced her to meet the rest of their friends for a drink that night after work. Their local bar was a dinghy corner pub a few blocks from Clarke’s apartment, it had cheap beer and a passable menu, a sunny beer garden filled crammed full of mismatched chairs, fairy lights and astro-turf.

Bellamy was already sitting there with Murphy, a jug between them as Raven and Clarke approached.

“Hey Bell…” She said, leaning down to give him a kiss on the cheek. His face split into a wide grin, his long curls falling effortlessly across his freckles. Murphy gave her a wry smile as she sat down.

“How are you, Clarke? I haven’t seen you since the party.”

“It was a good party…” Raven added, sighing. “I wish it was the weekend…”

“ _You didn’t even work today, Raven_ …” Clarke said, exasperated.

“I may not get paid. But I consider a welfare visit to your sex den of debauchery a form of labour, Griffin.”

Bellamy guffawed into his beer and Clarke shot him a dirty look.

“I hardly consider _one date_ an act of debauchery…I wish.”

“Who with?” Bellamy asked, his brown eyes alight with mischief. _Jesus._ Raven and Bellamy together were incorrigible. “Niylah?”

“No.” Clarke said. “Niylah and I are…casual…friends…”

 _Casual friends. Well done, Griffin,_ she thought to herself.

Bellamy gave her a knowing look. “Who with?”

“Her name is Lexa,” She said, “I met her at the party.” _Lexa._

“Lexa?” Murphy said, a crease forming across his forehead.

“Do you know her?”

“Yeah, I’ve met her.” He said, “She knows Emori…”

“Yeah?” Clarke said, taking a sip of her beer and doing her best to appear casual.

“She’s _cool_ … But she’s pretty intimidating, actually.” Murphy took another sip of his beer, his dark blue eyes fixed on Clarke. “She’s smart, top of her field…incisive, a leader. Emori has a lot of respect for her.” He finished, as if that concluded the topic.

“How do they know each other?”

“She was captain of the debate team at University. I would _not_ want to face her in a debate…” A small smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, she was a pretty intense leader. Um…Emori told me they used to call her… _The Commander._ Half-joking…but half-seriously, I think.”

“ _The Commander_ …” She heard Bellamy and Raven collapse into peals of laughter next to her.

Clarke took another sip of her beer, ignoring the loud guffaws next to her. She was not sure what to do with this information, she was half-amused and almost wanted to join the others in their laughter, but a thread of intrigue also twitched under the surface. She made a small thinking noise, looking at Murphy.

“Interesting.” He said, looking at Clarke. “I wouldn’t have pegged her as your type, Clarke.”

“Everyone is Clarke’s type, that’s the point.” Raven said, patting Clarke good-naturedly on the shoulder. Clarke shot her a glare.

“You _used_ to be, Raven. Definitely not anymore…”

“Oh, Griffin, don’t flatter yourself, as if you could have kept _me_ interested…that’s why we had to move to pity friendship…”

Clarke ignored her, looking down at her phone. She thought of what Murphy had told her, the words he had used. _Intimidating._ Lexa had not seemed intimidating to her. _Impressive_ , maybe. But her interaction with Lexa had been very different than Murphy’s would have been. She thumbed out a message, ignoring her friends continued banter, finding Lexa’s name in her contacts.

_Hey Lexa. I had fun last night. Are you free tomorrow night?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments and support! This chapter doesn't have a lot of Clarke x Lexa, but I'm trying to add a little more texture to their lives and friendships. Stay tuned for more Clarke x Lexa next chapter.
> 
> I listened to this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYyivia8b90) a lot while I wrote this if you're looking for musical accompaniment.
> 
> Sofia Bolt - Get Out Of My Head


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your feedback, it's really appreciated! I’m always open to critical feedback in regards to characterisation or writing style. I completed this chapter in a flurry, so please excuse any errors. 
> 
> This chapter has a lot more Lexa x Clarke than the last one! A few things that have emerged unexpectedly in this story. Lexa has some light PTSD from Costia, which turned out a little darker than originally intended. 
> 
> Lexa and Clarke are both enormous nerds, so there’s a lot of that in there. Enjoy!

_Hey Lexa. I had fun last night. Are you free tomorrow night?_

Lexa stared at her phone, lump in her throat. She had spent the day paralysed, caught between the pleasurable hum of her body from the night before and the fractured loop of guilt and heartbreak that flitted across her mind. She was home now, piles of paper from her latest project strewn across the dining table. But she wasn’t working, instead she was staring at the message Clarke had sent her, typing and then retyping various responses.

_Hey Clarke. I had a great time as well. I’m free tomorrow, what did you have in mind?_

Or

_Hey Clarke. I had a good time. But I’m not available for anything further. Thankyou._

Or

_Hey Clarke. I can’t get the image of you moaning my name when I was knuckle deep inside you. I’m free tomorrow if that’s what you have in mind?_

She sighed, backspacing again and put her phone face down on the opposite side of the table.

Anya came in, carrying a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine.

“Hey Lexa,” She said, beginning to unpack the groceries. “How was your day?”

Lexa made a noncommittal noise, pretending to focus on the paper in front of her. “Busy.”

“Oh yeah?” Anya said, raising an eyebrow. “…how was your date last night?”

Lexa shrugged, ignoring the pressing desire to pick up her phone and try to type out another message. “Good.”

“Wow, you’re talkative tonight.” Anya rolled her eyes, pouring two glasses of wine. “Come on Lexa, if you stare at your phone any longer, I think your brain might explode.”

Lexa sighed. “Fine.” She pulled her papers into a pile and put them to the side, taking the glass of wine that Anya offered.

“How was your date last night?” Anya asked again, the mocking lilt to her voice had softened slightly and a small crease had formed across her forehead.

“It was good. _Great_ , even. _Fuck…_ Clarke is…” Anya looked at her, with a slight air of exasperation.

“I don’t know, Anya. I left this morning, feeling invigorated and excited…”

“…then you felt guilty for feeling so good and now you’re punishing yourself.”

Lexa took a sip of wine, meeting Anya’s gaze. “Yeah, something along those lines.”

Anya’s voice was quiet, “Lexa. You’re allowed to feel happy, you’re allowed to feel joy. It can’t be healthy to self-flagellate this much every time you have an orgasm…”

Lexa smiled, very slightly. “It’s just _hard,_ Anya. Logically…I know that, of course. But then I feel happy…excited about someone and…I just can’t stop thinking that I don’t deserve it, that I’m going to ruin it somehow.”

“I know, Lexa. But Cos…Costia would want you to be happy, she would want you to find joy, and love…and pleasure. _God._ It would break her heart to see you like this _.”_

Lexa nodded, looking down at her hands, at her phone, avoiding Anya’s penetrating gaze, her almond eyes filled with concern, her angular jaw hardened in defiance.

Anya, ever patient with Lexa, ever patient with her grief. Anya who had helped her pick up pieces after Costia died. She barely remembered the days after the hospital – a flurry of tiny decision she had to make of how to sum up a life, how to _remember,_ how to encapsulate a love so _big_ and yawning.

What flowers did she want at the funeral? Lilies? _Too typical._ Roses? _Too romantic_. Orchids, Anya said. _Of course._

What things of Costia’s did she want to keep? Where did she want to live? What should she say to Costia parents? When did she need to go back to work? Anya, who had patiently and seamlessly pulled her through, helped her sort through Costia’s belongings, helped her pack down their tiny apartment together, helped her wade across the cavernous gulf that ached beneath her heart, the chasm that now lay in her wake. Anya, ever patient, occasionally frustrated. It had been years now and Lexa could go days, even weeks without thinking, without stumbling, tripping back down into the chasm of her grief. But when she did, she would so often find Anya, sarcastic and annoyed, but _still,_ holding out a hand. 

“Trauma is a break, Lexa, a rupture…” She said. “It’s a rupture in your cognitive functioning, it’s empty space and disconnect. You are allowed to grieve, you are allowed to hold vigil, but you are also allowed feel _joy_. The biggest honour to Costia would be to _live_ , and not as some shell of your former self.” She took a deep breath, fixing Lexa with a hard look. 

Lexa nodded, her face set. “You’re right…thanks, Anya.” Lexa let out long, slow exhalation of breath, almost a sigh. After a few moments, she met Anya’s concerned gaze and let out a small laugh. “But also, _fucking hell._ Such an intense pep talk for _one_ date.”

“I know, you’re a disaster.” Anya said, her sardonic air returning. “Tell me…how was the sex?”

***

Clarke can _cook._ Lexa doesn’t know what she was expecting. Clarke, as accomplished an artist as she is, does give off a slight chaotic air. So, she is quite surprised then when arrives at Clarke’s house and is not presented with a mediocre risotto or passable Italian takeout. Instead Clarke opens the door looking slightly flustered and with an adorable dusting of flour on her forehead.

“Oh, you’re here.” Clarke said, her face splitting into a wide smile.

“Hello Clarke…” Lexa said. 

“I’m a little all over the place…” She said breathlessly, ushering Lexa inside. “I made lasagne…but the sheets took longer than expected…”

“You _made_ the lasagne sheets?” Lexa said, shocked.

“Of course.” Clarke said, smirking now. “I’m not a philistine.” She takes the wine from Lexa. “Red. _Perfect._ I’ll pour you a glass and then I’m going to quickly change…”

“ _Wait.”_ Lexa said, grabbing Clarke’s hand and pulling her into her. Lexa kisses her, deep and lingering and she’s momentarily lost, the smell of sandalwood, the taste of _Lexa,_ the desperate bite on her bottom lip.

“Fuck.” Clarke said with a sigh, forehead pushed against Lexa’s. “I missed you too.” She pulled away slightly. “I have to get changed though, before you have a chance to pull all my clothes off.”

Lexa laughed, touching the dusting of flour on Clarke’s forehead with her thumb. “As long as you don’t wash this off…”

Clarke can _cook._ The lasagne is perfect, melt in your mouth, and Lexa is almost distracted by the meal from the intense looks that Clarke is sending her way.

“Wow, Clarke… _this_ is delicious.”

“You’re surprised aren’t you.” Clarke said, one eyebrow slightly raised as she sent Lexa a questioning look. She’d changed into black, her hair falling about her shoulders in effortless blonde tendrils.

“No, not surprised…impressed?”

Clarke smiled at her, pouring herself another glass of wine from the bottle on the table. “You’re a bad liar, Lexa.”

“ _Alright_ , so I’m a little surprised. You seem very busy, Clarke. I don’t know where you’d find the time to cook like this.”

Clarke laughed at this, enjoying the way Lexa’s mouth wrapped around her name. _Clarke._ The musical lilt of her voice, the tonal emphasis on the final syllable, the way she held it in her mouth, almost reverent.

“I’m an artist, Lexa. I have a lot of time to procrastinate.”

Lexa smiled at her, finishing the last bit of her lasagne. “Did you learn growing up?”

“Yes, a little. I cooked a lot with my dad. He was a great cook…” Clarke trailed off, looking down at her plate.

Lexa picked up the tonal shift, the aversion of Clarke’s gaze and steered the conversation away.

“Well, your learnt well. …dinner was _surprisingly_ delicious.”

Clarke met Lexa’s gaze. Her eyes were a stormy blue, and with Lexa’s comment she saw the tension in her jaw ease slightly, her eyes brightening. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” she said. Clarke’s look darkened, and she raised one eyebrow dramatically, biting her lip “…are you ready for dessert?”

Lexa groaned. “ _Clarke._ That was so corny.”

“I know, I know,” She said, lacing her fingers in Lexa’s with barely contained laugh. “But I’ve been dying to kiss you again since we sat down to dinner and it was the easiest segue I could think of.”

She leaned closer. Lexa could feel her breath on her neck now, the smell of her hair. Clarke kissed her, barely touching her lips, breathy and desperate. Lexa could taste the acidity of the wine on her breath, her tongue slow and gentle, as she’s lulled into a reverie.

Lexa pulled Clarke into her lap, a hardened kiss between them, and was rewarded with Clarke biting her bottom lip, a husky moan of _Lexa_ under her breath.

“I’m very proud of us for getting through a whole meal…” Lexa said.

Clarke barely acknowledged Lexa’s statement and instead wordlessly tugged her towards the bedroom. Clarke kissed her, all hunger and self-assurance, before pushing her down on the bed. Lexa fixed her with a glazed look, lost in the mirage of Clarke above her as she peeled off her clothing, stripping down her bra and underwear.

“I’ve been _thinking_ about fucking you for days…” Clarke said, throwing her clothing unceremoniously onto the floor and fixing Lexa with a ravenous stare.

Lexa is breathless now. She’s staring at Clarke whose black lace underwear is clutching and _barely containing_ her curves in the most beautiful way. Her alabaster skin is slightly flushed as she crawls over Lexa, pressing the weight her whole body onto Lexa’s.

“ _Please.”_ She said, inches away from her mouth, her voice low and dangerous. “take off your clothes.” Lexa recovered quickly, mute, her pupils blown. She scrambled up and pulled off her clothing, revealing her lithe and muscled figure.

“Come here,” She said, pulling Lexa back to bed and peeling off her underwear. “I want to taste you.”

Lexa can only let out a low moan, her words escaping her as Clarke makes her way down her body. She gently pulled her thighs apart, a small patch of curls already dampened with arousal. Clarke can smell her. _Lexa._ She had been thinking about it for days, the taste of her mouth, her cunt, the feel of her skin.

Clarke takes her time, leaving delicious bite marks and indentations of her nails of Lexa’s thighs, spurred on by the little grunts of pleasure and moans coming from Lexa’s mouth, her body tensed and writhing. “Fuck.” Clarke said, her voice low and guttural. “I love the noises you make for me. You’re so _fucking_ sexy.” Lexa is beyond words, writhing under Clarke’s hot breath and teeth marks on her pelvis and thighs.

Clarke put her mouth on Lexa, moaning into the familiar earthy, sweet and pungent. _Lexa._ Her tongue running rivulets of pleasure through Lexa’s whole body, basking in the taste and smell. Clarke can feel her opening, her thighs pressing against Clarke’s head, her movements jerky and desperate.

“No,” Clarke said, sensing the careening precipice that Lexa is moving towards. “Not yet. I want be inside you. Yeah?” Lexa can only nod, her breath coming out in ragged gasps.

Clarke pulled her thighs further apart, putting two fingers inside. Lexa is tight, but dripping and she easily falls into a rhythm, her tongue on her clitoris and her fingers curved upwards. “Do you like that?” Clarke asked. “Does that feel good?”

Lexa nodded, again, and let out a shuddering _yes_ as Clarke fucked her deeper. Her skin is on fire, her body rigid and on the edge of orgasm. Clarke pulled her mouth away from Lexa and crawled up her body, finding her lips. Lexa can taste herself in Clarke’s mouth, tangy and sweet, and it sends her closer. Clarke is murmuring things to her that she can’t quite make out, words that sound like _fuck_ and _yes_ , but she can only feel Clarke’s mouth on her neck, her fingers fucking her _deeper_ and _deeper_.

“Look at me, Lexa.” Lexa barely registered her voice, her eyes clenched shut, lost in the feeling of Clarke’s body against hers. Her eyes fluttered open, finding Clarke’s piercing gaze, darkened with desire. She’s gasping now, her breath coming out almost as a low whine. Clarke began touching her clitoris in small rhythmic motions that matched the pleasurable stretch of the three fingers deep inside her.

Suddenly, Lexa let go - stumbling off the vast precipice, the slow build of desire breaking over her like jagged surf. Her body went rigid, her cunt clenched around Clarke’s hand as she held her. Her forest green eyes fixed on Clarke, wide and desperate, as Clarke whispered sweet words into her open gasping mouth.

It took a long time for Lexa’s breathing to return to normal. Clarke ran her fingers through her scalp, massaging the back of her head. She lay in Clarke’s arm, as the world, blurred and liquid slowly edged back into focus. Her first instinct was to pull herself together, _quickly_ , move through her own pleasure and focus on Clarke. But Clarke pulled her back down into her arms, her fingers in her hair, small kisses peppered along her jawline. Lexa allowed herself to be lulled, small waves of pleasured ricocheting through her body, her limbs still vibrating.

Slowly, Lexa emerged from the reverie, her body still humming. _“Fuck.”_ She said _,_ rolling on top on Clarke, sweat slicked and moaning. Lexa pushed her against the mattress, the feeling of her hot skin reawakened the ebbing low tide of desire.

She fixed Clarke with a scorching look, almost urgent. “I want you.” She said, easily slipping two fingers inside her cunt, wet and open.

Clarke moaned in response, deep and husky. _I want you._

Clarke was lost in the blistering look that was Lexa was giving her and the insistent motion of her fingers, and did not register the tenor of Lexa’s statement. _I want you._

_***_

Clarke woke up to morning light filtering through her bedroom window, beams falling across the sleeping figure of Lexa curled next to her. Lexa was _beautiful_ in the morning light. Her delicate eyelashes fluttering with each shallow breath, her high cheekbones and chiselled jawline relaxed into the pillow, her skin almost aglow in the yellowish morning hue. She usually seemed so restrained, _controlled_ even. Clarke felt her chest tighten, seeing Lexa’s sleeping form, small and vulnerable and curled into the imprint of Clarke’s body in the mattress.

She had felt it too, the small imperceptible shift between them. Seismic, but incremental, the way she had held Lexa in her arms, vulnerable and raked with desire. Clarke was used to _sex_ , meaningless and transient. But _Lexa._ Lexa felt weighted and dangerous, desire and anticipation pooled in her stomach as she watched her sleep. Clarke sighed, pushing away the feeling and burrowing herself back into Lexa’s sleeping form.

Her movement caused Lexa to stir. Her eyes blinking slowly, a low sleepy hum escaping her lips. “What time is it?” She murmured.

“It’s Saturday.” Clarke said.

Lexa laughed under breath, eyes still closed. “Saturday is not a time of day, Clarke.”

“It’s early,” Clarke groaned, wriggling closer to Lexa’s body. “…too early for a Saturday.”

Lexa made a noncommittal noise, her eyes fluttering open and her arms snaking around Clarke’s naked form. She could feel the warmth of Clarke’s skin against her, the smell of her shampoo, feel the slow rise and fall of her breath against Lexa’s chest. It had been a while since she had woken up like this, warm and content, wrapped around somebody. _Anya had been right_ , she thought to herself. _I am allowed to feel joy._

Clarke gave a contented sigh. “Well, if I’m going to awake this early, I’m going to need coffee.” Clarke wriggled slightly out of Lexa’s reach. “How do you like your coffee, Lexa”

“Black. No sugar.”

Clarke sighed dramatically, “Of course you do.” She laced her fingers in Lexa’s leaning down and kissing her, slow and open mouthed. “I’ll be right back. _Stay there.”_

 _“_ Where was I going to go?” She said under her breath, her gaze following Clarke as she pulled on her robe. She thought back to the last date they had. Lexa, a deer in headlights, struggling to find her clothes in the half-darkness before Clarke had pulled her back to bed.

Lexa looked around the room. The room was well-decorated, but with a chaotic smattering of clothing and art books that screamed _Clarke._ Lexa looked at the books on the bedside table, feminist photography, essays of Jane Didion, Eileen Myles, some Kerouac.

Clarke came in carrying too much two steaming mugs. She noticed Lexa looking through her books. “See you anything you like?” She said, passing Lexa as mug and sliding back into bed against Lexa’s body.

“Interesting collection.”

“…yeah, some 1970’s lesbian poetry to balance out the toxic masculinity of the Beats.”

Lexa snorted into her coffee mug.

“Let me guess,” Clarke said, a wry smile across her lips. “Your tastes are a little more… _classic.”_

“Yes.” She said, thoughtfully, chewing her lip. “No, I also enjoy _contemporary_ literature.”

Clarke smiled at her, her fingers tracing the down Lexa’s naked back. “You’ll have to make me some recommendation for _contemporary_ or _classic_ literature, Lexa. I’m always running out of things to read.”

Lexa let out a small laugh, before clearing her throat dramatically and sitting up in bed slightly.

 _“Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?  
_ _What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?  
_ _Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?  
_ _When did my colds a forward spring remove?  
_ _When did the heats which my veins fill,  
_ _Add one more to the plaguy bill?_  
 _Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still  
_ _Litigious men, which quarrels move,_  
 _Though she and I do love?”_  
Lexa recited, giving Clarke a self-satisfied smile, a glint of mischief in her light green eyes.

Clarke looked at her, incredulous. “Lexa?”

"It’s John Donne, Clarke. _Classic_ romantic poetry. Consider it a recommendation.”

“Do you always recite romantic poetry to women while lying naked in their bed?” Clarke said.

Lexa’s response died in her throat as Clarke kissed her, hungry and open-mouthed. Clarke’s fingers lingered on her hips, tracing down her thighs, enjoying the small noises Lexa made when dug her nails into the bruises from the night before.

Clarke straddled her and fixed Lexa with a scorching gaze. Lexa, eyes glazed and breath already ragged as her hands trailed down Clarke’s naked body, the swell of her hips, her writhing ass pressed across against Lexa’s pelvis.

“Fuck, Clarke.” She said, pulling away from the embrace, breathless and dazed. “I’ll have to memorise some more poetry if that’s the response it gets me…”

***

Clarke sat in her studio, the familiar acrid smell of turpentine and oil paint, the sweet aromatic undertones of pine and freshly stretched canvas. She liked these smells, found them grounding – a sensory tether to the world around her when she got lost in her practice. Her studio was in a converted warehouse, a post-war factory repurposed by artists and creators over the last few years in the industrial part of town. The rooms were separated by plasterboard and scrubbed clean by cheap paint on the exposed brick. Noise bounced and echoed throughout the rooms in the cavernous building and she had adapted to working in rhythm with the fading light and orchestra of sound from the city around her. She was lucky enough to have a large window in her studio and was enjoying working today, the early afternoon light dappled across her canvas. It was late on Monday and she was relishing the _certainty_ and inspiration that had gripped her since early this morning, especially after the frustration she had had with her painting the week before.

She smiled to herself, paintbrush between her teeth as the piece in front of her took shape. It was a divergence from her usual work, darker colours and heavier brushwork, from the brighter and lighter work she usually completed. It was hard to admit it to herself, at least consciously, that the work was inspired by _Lexa_. It was inexplicable, the colour palette she associated with Lexa, all dark greens and forest browns, dappling of yellow light, a smattering of red, like blood. She also sensed a heaviness in Lexa, a darkness and a grief that lurked unbidden beneath the surface, something that Clarke couldn’t quite touch. She was intriguing, and the piece Clarke worked through, all heaving colours and tension, reflected that.

She thought back to the day they had spent lost in each other, a haze of pleasure and easy laughter. It had been a while since intimacy had felt so _easy_ and natural, like taking a long-awaited breath after breaking through the surface. Since Saturday, her body had been humming, her brain wired and tense. She had ignored calls from her mother and even Wells and thrown herself into painting, spending hours at the studio, surprised by the bold and moody style that emanated from her brushes.

She looked at her phone, a missed call from her mother, an astrology meme from Raven, and a text from Lexa. They had exchanged minimal texts since Saturday, and Clarke had enjoyed the breathing room to throw herself into her work and try to ease the tension in her body. But when she saw Lexa’s name flash on her screen, she couldn’t help smiling at her phone like an idiot.

_Hey Clarke. I know you’re busy in the studio, but I’d love to see you. Coffee break?_

Clarke’s heart flipped in her chest at the _love to see you._ She tapped out an affirmative reply and fifteen minutes later she heard a knock and opened the door to see Lexa holding two coffee cups. She was back in her usual leather jacket, her hair pulled into intricate braids and the dark eyeliner that caused Clarke’s chest to constrict, leaving her breathless. She would look _intimidating_ to Clarke if she didn’t have the distinct memory of her lying in bed with no clothes on and reciting a 400 year old poem to her.

"Are you going to invite me in, Clarke?”

Clarke hesitated, unsure. It was one thing to bask in the inspiration of _Lexa_ , it was another to show the work to her. It was so new and still felt raw, a vulnerable underbelly she still felt unwilling to show the world. Clarke took a deep breath, opening the door and pulled Lexa inside.

“Wow, Clarke.” She said, beckoning at the large canvas on the easel that Clarke had been working on. “It’s amazing, so visceral…it’s a little darker than your usual style?” Lexa gestured to the other pieces in the room, the colours a little more muted, tones of pastel and airy lightness.

Clarke nodded, trying not to give too much away, but she couldn’t help smiling ever-so-slightly at Lexa’s awe of her work. “Yeah, well. I’ve been feeling a little _inspired_ ….”

Lexa passed her the coffee, still lost in the piece in front of her. Clarke reached out, lacing her fingers. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Clarke loved the industrial part of town, old smokestacks and railway yards, bluestone and graffiti. She loved the industrial heritage, long-abandoned and rediscovered by artists and punks, repurposed and reforged outside the confines of city-planners. Clarke scuffed the bluestone of the alleyway they’re walking along, an unseasonal chill in the air. Lexa’s cheeked are flushed and Clarke snaked her arms into her, pulling her closer for warmth.

“I love all the bluestone,” She said. “It’s from the quarry here as well…” Clarke beckoned to the remnants of a quarry, near the railway yard. She pulled Lexa along the pathway, pointing out her favourite buildings and describing the layered city history as they walked along the railways line, the dirty polluted river. Lexa seemed amused, entranced almost.

“I didn’t know you were a local historian, Clarke.”

“I love the city,” She said, blushing slightly. “It’s a living, breathing organism…an ecosystem of industry, of people, history. I like that you can trace that in the built environment…” She trailed off, fixing Lexa with a keen look.

“Who knew you were the real nerd out of the two of us, Clarke?”

Clarke blushed a little redder. “I can’t recite poetry on command, unlike some of us…”

Lexa shrugged in response, taking a sip of her coffee.

“I learnt from Bellamy.” Clarke said. “He’s an architect and a big history nerd…I’m pretty vanilla compared to him.”

“No, Clarke.” She said, drawing small circles on Clarke’s palm. “Don’t stop…I like listening to you.”

Clarke kissed her, enjoying the smell of wet smog and concrete around her, the far-off sound of a train whistle and the slow cadence of the river lapping against the aged stonework. Clarke loved seeing Lexa like this, outside of her small apartment, leading her through the twisted streets of the city she loved. 

“I had a good time the other night…” Clarke said quietly, her hot breath on Lexa’s cheek.

Lexa hummed in response, her grip tightening on Clarke’s hand.

“It felt easy, you know? Familiar. I like spending time with you…” Clarke seemed unsure, tongue-tied, each word a struggle to get out.

“I like spending time with you too, Clarke.” 

“I want to be honest and I don’t want to ruin….” She was rambling slightly now, Lexa could feel her heart beating rapidly in her chest. “I like you, Lexa…”

Lexa pulled her closer, placing a soft kiss on her hairline, a soft whiff of oil paint and vanilla filled her senses.

Clarke sighed. “I like you, Lexa, but I also want you to know I’m not the biggest fan of monogamy. I’m seeing other people, not _seriously,_ but occasionally.”

Lexa’s forehead creased slightly, and she nodded, encouraging Clarke to continue talking.

“I want to be honest with you, so if you’re _uncomfortable_ we can stop…” Clarke stopped talking, letting the unspoken _seeing each other_ wash over them. Clarke could feel it, the emotional quicksand she felt around Lexa, the look Lexa had given her as she lay in her arms in the half-light, wide and desperate. She knew Lexa felt it too, deep and heaving, liquid and electric, the tension between them.

Clarke continued, “I want to be honest with you, you can ask me any questions or think about it, think about what that means for _you_ …for _us_.”

Lexa nodded, slowing chewing her lip. Her brow was furrowed slightly, she looked deep in thought, but not upset. “I understand, Clarke. Thank you for being honest with me.”

She took a few moments, her brow still furrowed, before she continued. “It’s only been a couple of dates…” Lexa said, with a restrained casual air that broke the tension. “It makes sense that you’d be seeing other people. I understand that, I’m ok with it.”

Clarke nodded, confused, but a little heartened by Lexa’s response. “Great,” She said, her sky blue eyes brightening as she pecked a small kiss on Lexa’s cheek. “I want you to know, that you can ask me questions or we can talk about it more…whatever you want…”

Lexa nodded. “I’m alright. Thanks Clarke.”

Clarke tugged at Lexa’s hand, “I want to show you something…”

Clarke led Lexa to the low overhang of a railway bridge above the yawning river, the bridge was strewn with rubbish and scrubby weeds that peeked through the sleepers and awnings. Clarke gestured to some faded graffiti on the rusted metal above them. However, on second glance it wasn’t graffiti in the normal sense, but instead a painting about five metres wide, all metallic blues and light greys, a swirling mass of movement. It was a little amateurish, but beautiful, and evoked the lines of the river and buildings around them, the colour and texture of the stonework and blue-tinged metal. Lexa recognised the distinct style immediately

“Wow, Clarke…how did you even get up there…” Lexa said, gesturing to the piece, high above the rushing river and the hard-stone ground below.

The tension in Clarke’s face broke, splitting into a wide grin.

“Young Clarke was quite the daredevil….” She said. “Pretty stupid, but pretty gutsy.”

Lexa smiled back at her, her eyes moving between Clarke’s shining eyes and the enormous spray-painted piece above them. She smelt the smoke mixed with the earthy rot of the river, and couldn’t resist pulling Clarke into a rapturous kiss, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Well, Lexa…” Clarke said, her forehead pushed against Lexa’s, her eyes lost in the light green tones of Lexa’s eyes, laced with gold. “If you like my art this much, you should come to my exhibition next week…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem included in this chapter is "The Canonization" by John Donne.


End file.
